


The Dangling Conversation (Story) by Nickovetch

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does Chinese food go with vodka? You be the judge.</p><p>An important note: The author of this story is Nickovetch, not me. Nickovetch had a run-in with RL last night, and asked me to post her story for her. AO3 won't let me change the author line, so this is just to let you know that every delicious word belongs to Nickovetch. I created the accompanying artwork, but that's all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dangling Conversation (Story) by Nickovetch

**The Dangling Conversation**

**by Nickovetch**

****

 

A brown and gray tree sparrow rested on the ledge outside of Napoleon Solo’s Munich hotel window, chirping shrilly as if to chide the agent for sleeping in on such a glorious day.  Even the damned birds here are industrious, he thought, dragging the pillow over his head and willing himself back to sleep.  Moments later, his communicator beeped, waking him and scaring the sparrow into flight.  “Good riddance,” Solo mumbled, before grabbing the pen and opening the channel.  “Solo here.”

There was an indistinct noise from the other end, and then a muffled voice.  “’Poleon?”

“Illya?”  Instantly awake, Solo assessed Kuryakin’s slurred voice.  Injured, drugged, or delirious?  His heart pounded in his chest, worry gnawing at him knowing he was 4000 miles from his partner.  “Are you all right?”  He barely registered that his Special was in his gun hand, the agent more awake than the man.  

There was a chuffing sound and Illya replied, “Khorosho.  ’M--good.  Though I might be a little drunk.”    

Solo exhaled.  Not drugged.  Not injured.  Good.  He calmed himself and set the Special back on the dresser, unclenching his fingers.  Drunk.  He could count the times he’d seen Illya drunk on one hand.  Tipsy, relaxed, snockered, even, but out-and-out drunk, rarely.  “Where are you?” he asked.  He wanted to add, ‘Are you safe?,’ but he thought Illya might discern too much of his intent, even in his inebriated state.

“Home,” he replied, the word sounding wistful in the quiet voice.  At least he was in a secure location.  

Solo stretched back on the bed, shoved the pillows behind his back, making himself comfortable.  He imagined Illya lying on his uncomfortable couch, a bottle of vodka in one hand, and the communicator in the other.  “What’s wrong, Illya?” he asked softly, trying to draw his reserved Russian out.  He rarely opened up, even to Solo, and the American knew not to push too hard.  But in his current state, he might be able to make an inroad or two.  

“Nichevo.  Nothing.  Couldn’t sleep.”

Now Solo knew something was amiss.  Illya could sleep anywhere; planes, trains, sitting, prone, even standing up.  He kidded him about the ability every time he could.  Mainly, because Solo was jealous.  He had a hard time sleeping even in his own bed, with shutting down after work.  The job never allowed down time, not completely.  

“Something happened, though.  Are you hurt, milok?”  Solo strained to hear the reply.  Kuryakin mumbled in Russian and Solo cleared his throat once.  “English, partner. English.”

“Schto?  Oh, okay.  Only little hurt.  Accident in the lab.  Burn my arm.”  He heard the Russian take a deep breath and then blew a raspberry.  It was so unlike the staid agent that Solo could only stare at the pen.  “Took me off the roster for a week.  A week, Napoleon.  Ridiculous.”

Napoleon got over his surprise and covered the receiver and laughed.  It wouldn’t do for Illya to hear his mirth.  Wouldn’t do at all.  When he recovered his equanimity, he spoke into the mic.  “And Medical gave you something for the pain, yes?”  Things were starting to become clearer.

Kuryakin sighed in disgust.  He nodded and then realized Solo couldn’t see him and tried to focus on the pen, eyes crossing in concentration.  “Mm, yes.  Gave me a shot ‘cause they said I’d just spit the pills out behind their backs.  Kulaks.”  

Now Solo did laugh for Illya to hear.  “They’re right, partner.  Medical’s wise to you.”  He waited to see if Illya would respond and then asked, “Who drove you home?”  

“George.  Uh, Agent Dennell.  He was going my way.”   

Napoleon set the pen down on the pillow next to him, and crossed his legs.  “Good old George,” he said.  “And knowing you, you went against medical advice and started in on the Stoli as soon as George left, didn’t you, Illya?”

Illya sputtered indignantly.  “Did not!”  Static ensued as Illya dropped the communicator and had to retrieve it from between the cushions.  “I’ll have you know I started before George left.  Offered him a drink, too.  I do have manners, you know, ’Poleon.”  There was the distinct sound of glass and then chugging.  

Solo grinned and replied, “Yes, of course you do, Illya.  Like I’m sure you’re using a glass and not drinking straight from the bottle like a Cossack.”  

Illya swiped his mouth with his sleeve and frowned.  “Yolki palki,” he said, and took another drink.

“Take it easy on that stuff, will you?” Solo felt guilty for not being there to keep an eye on Illya.  He usually had to sign Illya out of Medical into his care, or they would keep the agent hospitalized.  He wondered who Illya sweet-talked into letting him go home this time.  He felt a twinge of jealousy for Illya’s unknown ally.  

Solo was on a case in Munich, without his usual back-up this time.  It was purely political and tedious as hell.  Administrative duty was the worst for an enforcement agent.  It required tact, negotiation skills and dogged determination to get the deal done.  Solo had all that in spades, so Waverly had sent the American with his blessings.  He had wrapped up the case this evening and gone to bed early, hoping he could get in some time for a hearty German breakfast before his flight.  He missed his partner the most at meals.  Illya was a terrific companion and a lover of food of any kind, adventurous to the extreme, and he had a steel-lined stomach.  Which reminded Solo…

“How much have you had to drink, tovarisch?”  

There was silence for a good thirty seconds and Solo pictured Illya in his mind’s eye squinting at the bottle, trying to gauge how much was left.  “Not a lot.”

Now, Illya’s idea of a lot and Solo’s differed drastically.  He usually took the number Kuryakin gave him and multiplied it by ten.  Or fifty.  “Illya, I want you to listen to me, okay?  Put the bottle down and leave it for a while.  I want you to talk to me.”

“Am talking to you, ‘Poleon.”  Swig, slosh.

Solo sighed.  “Agent Kuryakin, put the bottle down.  Now.”  He hated using the C.E.A. voice, but he was worried about Illya’s drinking on top of the morphine he’d undoubtedly had a healthy dose of.  When he was with the Russian, he’d let him have a belt or two and then hide the bottle, put Illya to bed and sleep on the couch to ensure his compliance.  Illya would throw him out in a pique the next morning and Solo would always laugh and wave goodbye.  Napoleon would stand next to the closed apartment door, listening to Illya ransack his place, looking for the hidden vodka.  He’d hear the whoop of victory when Illya found it, laugh and then head off to his own place, shaking his head at his crazy partner.

“Okay, okay.  Bozhe moy, you can be such a babushka sometimes.”  He heard the communicator rub against some part of the couch and then Illya was back on, albeit sheepishly.  “Izvinite, Napoleon.  You won’t tell anyone I called my boss a grandmother, will you?”  

“I won’t if you won’t.”  Solo was not going to breathe a word of this particular conversation to anyone.  But the senior agent was enjoying himself.  Too bad Illya wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow.  

“’Poleon, where are you?”

Solo sighed at the wistful quality to the question.  “I’m in Munich, remember?”

“Da, München.”  Illya did not have good memories from that part of Germany.  “When are you coming home?”

The pain in the plaintive question matched the ache in Solo’s chest when he thought of his solitary friend completely alone in a city of eight million.  “I have a flight out tomorrow morning.  Five a.m. your time, tovarisch.”

“Oh. Okay, ‘Poleon.”

Solo picked up the pen to hold it in his hand again, symbolically at least closer to Illya.  “Illya.  What’ s wrong?  Talk to me, brat moya.”  Napoleon was becoming more nervous as the conversation went on.  

“Prastite.  Prastite, Napoleon.  I should not have called.”  

Napoleon ran a hand across his stubbled face.  He sighed into the receiver.  “Illya. Illyusha.”  He used the diminutive purposefully, and heard the catch in Illya’s breath as he said it.  “Tell me what’s wrong.  Pozhalyusta.”  

There was a moment of quiet and then Illya spoke. “I’m just…chyort vozni.  Ya…ya odinokij, ’Poleon.”

Solo did a quick translation and came up with ‘alone.’  Lonely, he corrected.  Dammit to hell, he thought.  The first time my partner really opens up to me and I’m 4000 miles away.  “It’s okay, Illya.  I miss you, too.”

“Pravda?”  Illya whispered as if he were afraid to ask out loud.

“Da, tovarisch.  Pravda.”  Napoleon swallowed around the lump in his throat and said, “Look, partner, I’ll be back sometime tomorrow night, all right?”

“Is tomorrow right now.  I mean, it’s today, but…it’s your today but my tomorrow.  Oh, my head is dizzy.”

Napoleon chuckled into the mic.  “Illya, go to bed.  Drink a big glass of water and sleep it off.  In your bed, for once.  That couch could kill you.”

“Already asleep, ’Poleon.  Couch is good.  Couch is…here.”

He pictured Illya curled on his side on his fire-sale couch, snoring and clutching his communicator in one hand.  “All right, tovarisch.  I’ll see you soon.  Spokoinoj nochi.”       

“Spokoinoj nochi, Polya.”

Solo closed the connection and put his communicator on the nightstand.  He sat on the bed for a long time, running their conversation through his head, trying to make sense of Illya’s midnight confession.  One thing was certain; they had a lot to talk about when he got back to New York.  He wasn’t going to let Illya off the hook this time.  No inveigling, no obfuscation; they were going to pick up where they left off, without a transcontinental gulf between them.  Napoleon checked his flight information and smiled.  This was going to make for an interesting homecoming.     

“Sleep well, Illya Nickovetch.  You’re going to need it.”   

     

The Red-Eye

Napoleon Solo went up the metal stairs into the trans-Atlantic plane that would take him from Munich to his home in New York.  A beautiful stewardess greeted him just inside the door and ushered him to his seat in first class.  Mr. Waverly had uncharacteristically splurged on the ticket, his way of rewarding Solo for a job well done while troubleshooting for U.N.C.L.E.  

His stewardess smiled and helped him off with his tailored jacket, putting it on a hanger and taking it to the closet up front.  Solo settled into the comfortable seat and put his briefcase next to him.  The blonde returned and asked, “Would you like for me to stow your case as well, sir?”  She batted her perfectly applied eyelashes at him, the blue Pan-Am uniform accentuating her blue eyes and honey hair, as well as delineating the curve of her ample bosom and round hips.  

“Ah, no, thank you, Miss.  I have some work to do during the flight.”  He gave her one of his Solo smiles and she smiled back, saying, “Well, if you need anything, and I do mean anything, Mr. Solo, please be sure to let me know?”

Eyes roaming over her attractive form, he nodded and said, “I assure you, you will be the first to know.”  She seemed pleased by his answer and sashayed away in a wave of perfume and hairspray.  Solo loosened his tie, rolled up his cuffs and relaxed into the flight.  He really hadn’t any work to do as he had caught up waiting for his flight.  However, he needed a reason to keep his briefcase and the sensitive documents it contained close at hand.  He opened his case and went through a few files, keeping the cover of a businessman intact for now.

Once the craft was airborne and cruising, the attendant came back and took his drink order.  “I would love a very dry and very cold martini, dear girl.  Be an angel and save my life, won’t you?”  She winked at the handsome man and went to the next row.  After a bit she returned with his martini, and an extra.  “Just in case you need a refill, sir.”  

Solo looked at her nametag and placed his hand over his chest.  “Why, Jaclyn, you must be a mind reader.  I was just going to ask if you would join me.”  The seat next to him was empty, and Jaclyn slid into it gracefully, turning toward the dark-haired man and purring.  They linked wrists and drank from the martinis, looking into each other’s eyes as they did so.  Solo smiled, his eyes crinkling as he said, “Jaclyn, dearest, marry me and let me take you away from all this.”  

Without missing a beat, Jaclyn replied, “And give up handsome men in first class, and all the martinis I can drink?  Never!”  She placed the back of her hand against her forehead dramatically, making Solo laugh.  

“I can see I’m not good enough for you, darling.  Perhaps when you return and take my dinner order I can change your mind?”  He took her hand and kissed the back of it, sniffing her perfume.      

She leaned into him as he did, and he tugged ever so gently, taking her hand in his and pulling her into a kiss.  She went willingly, laying her hand on his shoulder as he placed his other hand behind her soft neck, joining them together for a pleasurable moment.  He kept it light and non-threatening, allowing her to decide when to end it.  After an acceptable amount of time, she drew back, raised her glass and they toasted, her eyes flashing her desire for him.  

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Solo, I need to get back to my duties.”  

“Now, Jaclyn, I’ve proposed to you.  You should at least call me Nappy.”  His brown eyes twinkled at her and she felt a shiver run up her spine.  There is just something about this one, she thought, standing and straightening her uniform.

She leaned down once more, taking advantage of her cleavage and his eye-line to whisper, “Why don’t you just call me?”  She slipped a napkin with her number on it in lipstick into his shirt pocket and kissed his nose as she headed back to the galley. Napoleon smiled as he closed his eyes and leaned his seat back.  

His early morning wake-up call and his large Bavarian breakfast combined to make him drowsy, so he turned off his light and caught a few winks.  By the time he woke, dinner service was starting and Jaclyn made her way from the back of first class to the front, where Solo waited.  She brought him a tray and drew off the cover with a flourish.  “New York strip, rare, au gratin potatoes and asparagus.  Hot coffee, black, and when you are ready for dessert, Nappy, just ring for the tray.”  

He took her hand once again and said, “Well, now, Jaclyn, seeing you again is all the dessert I need.”

She giggled and said, “My, my, you are a smooth one.”  Another passenger called for her and she sighed.  “Duty calls.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Don’t I know it.”  He watched her walk all the way back.

The food was excellent and Solo took his time, relaxing in a way he rarely had occasion to do, glad the job was done, flag planted, and that he was on his way home.  What would happen when he got there was another matter.  He had no way to know the outcome of the drama that was to unfold between his partner and himself.  All he knew was that he’d had a glimpse inside Illya that he hadn’t seen before, or known existed.  In vodka veritas certainly applied here.  

What Illya would remember of their midnight conversation or would admit to was another matter indeed.  It was the paramount reason Solo would waste no time resolving the matter.  The longer he waited, the easier it would be for Illya to beg off, feign ignorance, or use an assignment to leave the country.  His Russian partner was wily and slippery as a slime eel.  But Solo had the upper hand.  He knew a bit of how Illya felt now, and he would use that aggressively if he had to.

Many times Solo’d tried to put himself in the Soviet’s shoes.  Whatever the machinations behind the Iron Curtain, U.N.C.L.E. had managed to obtain an agent from an Eastern Bloc country, no mean feat with a Cold War mentality firmly rooted in that part of the world.    

When Waverly had paired the rookie Russian with his best enforcement agent and protégé, Solo had kept his reservations to himself.  Outwardly, Solo welcomed the new agent, trying to make him feel at home in the Command, where so many resented his presence and made no bones about it.  But, inwardly, Solo had doubts about Kuryakin’s loyalty and the true intentions of the Soviet Union.   

It hadn’t taken long for the young man to impress the senior agent.  Kuryakin was a whiz at anything that went “bang,” and he was a crack shot.  The slight build worked to his advantage, and Solo had seen firsthand how Thrush’s dismissal of the smallish man was their downfall time after time.  Kuryakin held black belts in several martial arts, no doubt discovering early on if he lacked in size he’d better make it up in skill.  

Solo smiled as he pictured Illya going after the biggest Thrush every time.  His hellcat partner never knew when to quit, either, and his sharp tongue always earned him an extra punch or kick when he was overpowered.  The C.E.A. had enough experience to know that Kuryakin would learn to hold his tongue eventually, as all the extra damage added up in the long haul.  

Solo did know of one condition of Kuryakin’s tenure.  He was not allowed to associate with any other Russian nationals, the U.S.S.R. afraid of defection and the U.N.C.L.E. afraid of collusion.  It had to make for a very lonely existence for Illya outside of the job.  Solo knew next to nothing of Illya’s family, or if he had any at all for that matter.  Illya didn’t talk of them and Solo didn’t ask.  He tried to imagine himself in Illya’s place, if he’d been plunked down in the middle of Moscow with no friends, no family and only the job for company, forced to converse in Russian, think in Russian, work in Russian, and forbidden to speak to any Americans there.  The gregarious American knew that he wouldn’t be able to do it and be the same person he was here with all of his freedoms.  He admired Illya’s ability to be the solid professional he was.       

But, as their recent conversation proved, Kuryakin wasn’t a robot.  He had admitted to having human flaws.  He was lonely.  Solo had reached out in friendship time and time again, until the cautious Soviet had realized the older man meant it and accepted the gift.  Even so, guilt gnawed away at Napoleon as he thought of all the nights when he’d squired a sweet young thing around town, leaving Illya to fend for himself.  True, Solo had tried to get him to double date, but Illya always demurred, preferring to stay home.  Perhaps he was just shy with the fairer sex.  He certainly had his choice of girls at work.  There had been a couple of conquests during their missions; Solo was pretty sure Kuryakin had gotten lucky.  His Russian partner was certainly an enigma, even after their time together.   Napoleon spent the rest of the flight going over possible scenarios for continuing their conversation.  One way or another, he would get through to his partner.  He had to know Solo was there for him.   

Just before they began their descent into LaGuardia, Jaclyn brought him his jacket and helped him into it, lingering to smooth the material across the broad shoulders.  Solo straightened his tie and once again became the suave agent.  Jaclyn took him by the tie and pulled him to her, kissing him deeply one last time, making her interest known.  She whispered in his ear, “Thank you for flying Pan-Am, Nappy.”

“It was my pleasure, I assure you.”  He took the napkin she’d given him and wiped her lipstick from his lips, and put the square back in his pocket.  Jaclyn blew him a kiss as she went to help the other passengers prepare to deplane.  Solo hit the tarmac at three in the morning New York time.  A car was waiting for him at the arriving passenger area, and Solo got in gratefully.    

“Why, hello there, Mr. Solo,” greeted the driver as he got into the back of the sedan.

“George!”  Solo smiled at Agent Dennell.  It was hard not to; Dennell was an affable sort.  “Courier duty again?” he kidded.

“Well, you see, Napoleon, whenever they need someone dispensable, I’m their guy.  George Dennell, Mr. Dispensable.”  He grinned at Solo, no malice in the words, just acknowledgement of the same.  

“George, I for one am very glad you were available to look after my partner while I was gone.  I’d say you were indispensable.”  He clapped him on the shoulder.  “Thank you, George, really.”

“Oh, it was nothing, Napoleon.  Gee, Illya is a great guy.  I know he wanted out of Medical in the worst way, so I just helped him out a little.”  

“Well, it meant a lot to me, George and I won’t forget it.”  Solo reclined against the seat and watched the city lights around him.  He was nearly asleep when George stopped in front of the garage entrance and ran his I.D. card across the electric eye.  Their car was allowed entry and Napoleon finally relaxed fully, knowing he was inside U.N.C.L.E. environs again.  Dennell found a parking space and eased into it, killed the engine and stepped out, waiting for Solo to join him at the elevator.  George waved and smiled at the recessed camera along the side of the retaining wall, and Solo sighed.  

“You’re not supposed to wave, George.  It’s a hidden camera.”  

Dennell frowned.  “Oops, sorry, Napoleon.”   The door opened and the men stepped inside, taking it down to reception.  Christine was on duty and she did her best to flirt, and Napoleon indulged her by sitting on a corner of her desk and chatting for a minute or two.  Dennell took his badge, gave a jaunty salute, and left them to their tryst.  

“Much as it pains me to let you go, Napoleon, you’re supposed to report in immediately and give your report to Section One.”  She sighed as he ran his fingers lightly along the inside of her soft arm.  

He kissed the pulse point of her wrist and sighed as well.  “Duty calls, I’m afraid, fair Christine.”  She pinned his badge to his lapel and let her hands linger on his chest.  “I get off at seven,” she whispered for his ears alone.

Solo dazzled her with a smile.  “I’ll have to take a rain-check, dear girl.  I’m afraid I’m severely jet-lagged, and wouldn’t be proper company today.  Tell me you’ll forgive me?”  He gave her puppy-dog brown eyes and she giggled.  

“Of course, Napoleon.  Call me later.”

He nodded to her and walked through the electric eye, triggering the door.  He went to his office, got his kit, readied his report and then dropped it into Waverly’s secretary’s inbox.  Too tired to drive home, he went to one of the agent’s quarters and stripped, showered, and crawled into bed, the time changes and air travel catching up with him.  He wanted to be fresh and alert when he met with Illya.  He couldn’t be off his game when it came to matching wits with his partner.

He set the alarm for ten a.m.  That would give him five hours’ sleep, enough to be refreshing.  Plus, it gave him the additional perk of reaching Illya’s place around lunch time.  Any plan that revolved around food had a better than even chance of going off with Kuryakin.  The familiar surroundings put him at ease and he was asleep in minutes.

The alarm woke him and he reached out to silence it, momentarily unsure of his surroundings.  Then his brain caught up with his body and he stretched, glad to be back on Eastern Time.  He was still a bit groggy, but he could catch up on sleep later.  He showered, shaved, and dressed in his clean clothes and then tidied up the apartment.  He’d drop his suit off for cleaning on the way out, then pick up lunch and head to Kuryakin’s place in the Village.       

Now that he’d delivered his report, he wasn’t officially on duty until Monday.  That gave him the weekend to deconstruct the Kuryakin Puzzle.  He jumped in his coupe and made his way out of the garage, revving the engine and shooting out into New York traffic.  He loved this city.  He never felt at home anymore unless he was here in the middle of the busiest and craziest city in the world.  

Illya’s favorite Chinese place was a few blocks away and Solo stopped, waiting for a VW to pull away so he could claim the spot.  Ten minutes later he had their order in brown paper bags, the smell making his mouth water.  He’d been too tired to eat last night, er, this morning, so now he was starving.  If Illya’s place hadn’t been so close he would have pulled over and filched an eggroll or two.     

Carefully he pulled back into traffic and made the short trip to the brownstone Kuryakin called home.  It was the first place U.N.C.L.E. had billeted him, too small for Solo’s taste but for a Soviet, it must have seemed like a palace.  Indeed, Illya had stayed here even after he’d been offered bigger digs, the bohemian lifestyle of his neighborhood appealing to his gypsy background.  He’d settled into the place like a tick, making himself comfortable with second-hand furniture and flea market furnishings.  Solo’s sensibilities had been appalled, but he’d seen how happy Illya’d been, gathering his treasures and bringing them home, finding just the right place for whatever it was.  Once Illya brought home a beautiful crystal figurine, and Solo had his art dealer look at it, pronouncing it Lalique and worth a small fortune.  The dealer offered to buy it, but Illya hung on to it.  Solo had laughed and said, “You’re becoming a real capitalist now.”  Kuryakin had given him a dirty look but then broken up as well.  It was the last time Napoleon ever made fun of Illya’s collecting.  

The memory made him smile and he thought of all the ups and downs there’d been in their partnership.  Definitely more ups than downs.  He was headed toward another chapter in their story.  Whether it would be in the up or down category remained to be seen.  

Solo parked a block away from the building and sat in his car, listening to the cooling engine ticking.  “’Once more unto the breach, dear friends,’” he quoted, marshaling his courage to take this next step.  Gathering the bags, he stepped onto the sidewalk and took a deep breath, going up the stairs on the stoop and into the domain of one Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.

Now, Where Were We?

Illya Kuryakin heard the door buzzer and debated whether or not to answer.  He looked at his watch and figured it was too early for it to be Thrush.  They were definitely the evening type.  Setting down the book he’d been reading, he palmed his Special and then checked the peephole cautiously.  The person at his door was obscured by a large paper bag that said, “China Gate” on it in red letters.  The bag spoke.  

“Confucius say, ‘Strike while the eggroll is hot.’”  

Illya laughed and opened the door.  “I’m not sure that is the exact quote, Napoleon.”

“Who cares?  I’m starving.”  The American came into the living room, dropped the bags on the dinette and then grabbed Kuryakin, pulling him into a hug, surprising the younger man.

“Ah, welcome back, Napoleon?”

Solo eyed him as he pulled away.  “Was that a statement or a question?”

Illya sighed and said, “Both, I think.”

Napoleon laughed and slapped Illya on the back.  “Fair enough.  Let’s eat.  Grab some plates, will you?”  He pulled the white cartons from the bags and began to divvy them up.  Illya’s pile was larger, of course.  He took the plate and sat across from his partner and dug in.  Illya put on water for tea and then joined him.  

“How was München?”  Illya asked politely between bites of eggroll.  

Solo wiped his mouth and replied, “Germanic.”  He grinned at Illya’s look.  “It was fine, Illya.  Boring, but the time was well spent getting some of the diplomats in our corner.”  

Illya grunted.  “Germans are always in their own corner.”  

Solo looked at his partner critically.  “Crabby this afternoon, are we?”  He noticed the dressing on his partner’s right arm, along the inner part of his elbow.  Kuryakin followed his gaze and crossed his arms under the table edge.  

“Is that the same dressing Medical put on two days ago?” he asked softly, knowing the answer.   

Illya ignored him and returned to his food.  

“Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin…” he groused, exasperated.  He shook his head and started on his Kung Pao chicken.  “Eat up, partner.  You’ll need your meds and we’ll have to change the bandage.”  At the Russian’s dour look, he added, “Unless you want to be off duty for two weeks, instead of one.”

Kuryakin muttered something Slavic under his breath and Solo held in the grin threatening.  “Anyone else in the lab injured?”

“No, I was just lucky it wasn’t…” he stopped and cut his blue eyes to Solo’s.  “How did you know about the lab?”  

Napoleon motioned with his head toward the empty Stoli bottle on the coffee table and the communicator resting next to it.   

Kuryakin groaned and hung his head.  “I thought I just dreamt it.”  

Solo grinned wickedly.  “Nope, my fine young Russian.  You drunk-dialed me at my hotel.”

Illya covered his face with one large hand and then peeked at Solo between two fingers.  “Did I say anything…embarrassing?”

Solo laughed.  “What drunk doesn’t?”  

“Napoleon!”  Illya was saved from further humiliation by the tea kettle whistling.  He got up to fix the cups, taking as long as he could.  When he returned he handed Solo his cup and dug into his meal, hoping Napoleon would forget about the call.

“How’s the moo shu?”  Solo asked.

“Extra spicy.  Want some?”  He picked up a piece of meat with his chopsticks and offered it up.

Solo sipped his tea.  “No, thanks.  I can’t take that stuff.”

“Lightweight.  It’s delicious.  Thanks for lunch, Napoleon.”  

Solo pushed his plate away, full.  Illya continued to eat, occasionally pilfering something from Solo’s leftovers.  The pork really was spicy and Illya got up to rummage in his fridge.  He came back holding two cold beers in one hand, silently handing one to Solo.

The American noticed the imported label and asked, “Who’s the lightweight now, Illya?”

Kuryakin chugged half the bottle before he replied.  “It’s the traditional post-Chinese beverage.”

Solo raised dark brows.  “Since when?”

Illya shrugged.  “Since now.”

Solo raised his bottle.  “Nazdarovy’e.”

Illya clinked them together.  “Salute.”  He finished his beer and cleaned up after them, automatically putting the leftovers in his fridge.  

Solo drank the last of his bottle and threw the empty in the trash.  He went to Illya’s bathroom and pulled out the first-aid kit from the closet, perusing the medicine cabinet for the stash of pills there.  He checked the labels to make sure they were the newest prescriptions and took the supplies to the coffee table.  “Saddle up, pilgrim,” he said in his best John Wayne voice.

“What?”  Illya asked.

Solo pointed at the couch.  “Ride it.”  When Kuryakin stayed where he was, Solo sighed.  “Sit, Illya.  Over here.”

“Oh,” the younger man said.  “You might have just said so in the first place.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes heavenward.  Illya sat stiffly on the end of the couch.  He pushed his shirt sleeve up to expose the bandaged injury.  

His partner readied what he needed and peeled off the old bandage.  The skin underneath was red and angry-looking.  Clear serum oozed from the deeper burned area, and Solo dabbed at it gently with sterile gauze soaked in diluted iodine.  He let it air dry and then applied a thin covering of burn cream, finally replacing the dressing.  He went to the teapot and poured another cup, taking it and the pills to Illya, holding them out to him.  

Illya sighed and took them, washing them down with tepid tea.  “Yuck,” he said.

“Erudite as always.”  

Kuryakin cleared his throat and said, “The tea did not live up to my usual epicurean standards.”

Solo sneered.  “Your usual standards only require that your meal isn’t moving.”  He covered a yawn with his hand and sat on the couch.

“Jet-lag?”

Solo nodded and patted his flat stomach.  “That and the big lunch.”

“Have you gotten any sleep since leaving Germany?”  Illya tossed an end pillow at him and Solo caught it, making himself comfortable against the sofa end.

“Yes, Mother, I took a nap at the office.”  He looked at the television section of the Times and said, “Hey, there’s a game on.  Turn it on, will you?”    

Illya rarely watched television, but at Napoleon’s insistence he’d gotten a used one at a pawn shop so they could watch the Yankees in the summer and the Jets in the winter.  Napoleon bought Illya a Yankees jersey at their first game.  He got a kick out of a Russian national wearing a Yankees jersey.  Illya didn’t care as long as Solo was buying the hot dogs.  And pretzels.  And beer.  

The set warmed up while Illya put the first aid kit away and put the dishes in the sink to soak.  He returned to the couch and settled in, handing another beer to his partner.  They watched the Yankees take the lead and cheered when a good play was made.  When the batter was called out at first, Illya groused, “He was robbed.  He was safe by a mile.”  

“We’ll make a New Yorker out of you in no time, Illya,” Solo said, grinning.  

“I should certainly hope not, Napoleon.”

“Snob,” he said and nursed his beer.  

Illya felt pleasantly buzzed, and realized that Solo had snuck a pain pill in with his antibiotics.  His arm had stopped throbbing, so he couldn’t hold it against him.  “Napoleon….”  His partner was sound asleep, his beer held loosely in one hand.  Illya rescued it and finished it for him, getting a blanket from the hall closet and settling it over his friend.  He retrieved his book, propped his feet on the coffee table and returned to his reading.  Twenty minutes later, he was asleep as well, knowing his partner was back safely and nearby.     

He came to hours later when he heard a meow outside his fire escape.  Rubbing away the sleepiness, Illya disengaged from the couch and walked to the window, opening it to allow the striped tabby to climb into the apartment.  “Lenny, keep quiet now and don’t wake Napoleon.”  He picked up the cat and rubbed his thumb across his chin, the cat purring softly in contentment.  The tom’s cheeks were prominent and battle-scarred and both ears were marked with notches.  Illya shut the window and recoded the alarm, allowing Lenny to jump down and prowl.    

He promptly jumped on the couch and settled on Solo’s chest, washing himself.  “Lenny!” Illya hissed, trying to ward him off.  

“S’okay, Illya, I’m awake.”  Solo squinted down at the cat and said, “Hello to you, too, Lenny.”  Lenny butted his head under Napoleon’s chin and licked his dimple.  Solo ran his hand across the lean cat landscape, scratching him in all the right places.   

“Sorry if he woke you.  I was just about to distract him.”  Illya went to the kitchen and opened a can of tuna.  Lenny meowed once and jumped off Solo, landing on the rug and bee-lining it to the dish.  He ate as only a stray could, wolfing the fish down quickly.

Solo frowned.  “He reminds me of someone I know…” he trailed off, snapping his fingers.  

“Very funny.”  Lenny finished by licking his whiskers and rubbing along Illya’s legs.  Illya bent down and patted him, speaking softly in Russian to him.

Solo watched his partner, his large hands gentle with the creature, his voice pitched soft and low.  “He must do all right on his own, when you’re away,” he commented.  Illya set a bowl of water down for Lenny, and he sat on the kitchen floor, contentedly grooming.  

Illya washed his hands and replied, “I make sure to feed him as much as I can to tide him over.  He’s kept the mice out of here, too.  He’s a good hunter.”

“So he takes after you in more ways than one,” Napoleon observed, making Illya smile and duck his head.  His stomach did a slow roll at the look on his partner’s face.  He took a deep breath and said, “I’m glad you have something here to welcome you home, Illya Nickovetch.”  

Illya looked up into Napoleon’s face, a puzzled look on his.  Napoleon folded the blanket and set it on the couch.  He stood and headed for the bathroom.  As he passed by Illya he said, “You know, there’s no reason why you should be lonely, Illyusha.”  He shut the bathroom door, leaving Illya with his thoughts while he freshened up.  When he came out, Illya was sitting on the couch, drinking from a fresh pot of tea.  There was a second cup on the coffee table.  Solo sat, and sipped from the cup, the silence stretching out between them.  

After a few minutes, Illya asked quietly, “Just what did I say to you, Napoleon?”

He laughed.  “Been dying to ask, have you, partner?”  Solo set his cup down and sat back.  “Nothing I didn’t know, or at least should have known before.”  The American shook his head, his forelock falling against his forehead.  “I’m sorry if you’ve felt lonely here, Illya.  I know I inadvertently added to that, and for that I hope you can forgive me.”    

“Napoleon, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Napoleon smiled. “Ahh, partner mine, but the vodka knew exactly what you wanted to talk about.”  He relaxed against the end of the sofa, and nudged Illya with one socked foot.  “I guess it didn’t occur to me that in a city this size, and a crowded command center like ours, that someone could get lost in all that busyness, and still be lonely.”   He cleared his throat softly and added, “I also assumed that you had your pick of all the women at work.  They certainly make it clear that they want you.”

Illya looked at his feet and wouldn’t meet Napoleon’s eyes.  “But I don’t…I don’t want the women at work.”  He sighed sadly and whispered, “What I want…what I want is…impossible.”  The last word was nearly inaudible, as Illya stood and retreated to the kitchen, scooping up Lenny and holding him against his body like a living shield.  

Solo gave him a moment and then spoke again.  “Illya, this isn’t the Soviet Union.  You’re not tailed by your handler anymore.  You have freedom here to do as you please.”  Solo stood and went to the small dining table and sat in one of the wooden chairs.  “You don’t have to live like a monk.”

Illya sighed.  “I’m not as free as you think I am.”  Blue eyes met brown as he said, “I’m not like you, Napoleon.  I’m not out for a meaningless tryst, or a series of one-night stands.  I want someone who will mean something to me.  It’s not just about sex.”  

Lenny jumped from Illya’s arms to the floor and padded over to the fire escape, looking at Illya, then the window.  Illya followed the cat, opened the window once again and watched Lenny jump out onto the metal frame.  “Good hunting, tovarisch.”  He shut the window again and then leaned against the frame, his gaze on the floor.

Solo trailed after him.  He parked a hip on a corner of the couch and regarded his friend.  “You should take a tip from Lenny, there, and go out on the prowl.  Hunt someone up yourself.  Live a little, Illya.  When you find what you want, pounce.”

He was on his back on the couch, Illya’s lean body atop his before he could react.  His instincts told him to fight, and he pushed against the strong arms holding him down.  Blue eyes bored into him, the need and the want in them shocking him to stillness.  He opened his mouth to speak, and Illya placed a blunt finger against it, shaking his head.  

“Do you see, Napoleon?  Do you see why I can’t have what I want?”  The look of desperation born out of loneliness etched Illya’s face into a mask of misery, and Napoleon was shocked to see the depth of his pain.  Illya started to pull away and Napoleon grabbed his forearms, holding him fast.  

“Who says you can’t?” he asked, his voice low with emotion and husky with desire.

There was a flash of an emotion Solo couldn’t pin down and then it was gone, the mask back in place.  “Don’t, Napoleon.  Don’t promise what you can’t deliver.  I couldn’t bear it.”  The longing in the soft voice struck deeply into Solo’s heart, and he raised one hand to gently stroke Illya’s cheek.  The Russian closed his eyes and leaned into the hand for a moment before he cried out wordlessly and closed the small space between them, wrapping his large hand around Solo’s neck, dragging the older man up against his lips.  He went willingly, allowing Illya to lead the dance, relishing the feel of the soft lips against his, the hard planes of his partner’s body along his own.  

Illya’s tongue lapped along his lower lip, and he opened his mouth, delighted at the overture.  It plunged inside, delving deeply and retreating, inviting his own to play.  He felt the tremors that wracked Illya’s body, the frantic need driving it.  He pulled Illya down flush to him and rubbed his back gently, calming him, speaking endearments to him softly.  He felt Illya’s mouth against his neck, trailing kisses and suckling at his skin as he traveled along Solo’s body like a starving man at a feast.  He ripped Napoleon’s shirt open, anxious to get to the next course, hands stroking the smooth skin of his chest, mouth working across hard nipples.   

Solo was content to allow him access, his own need making itself known between them, but Illya’s paramount.  He returned to Solo’s mouth, addicted to the taste of him.  Years of hearing about what Solo could do with his mouth fueled his desire, curiosity getting the best of him.  He played across his chin, licked the divot and suckled on his Adam’s apple, then nibbled along the full lower lip again and again.  Napoleon chuckled, and the vibrations against Illya’s tongue made him salivate.  He bathed Solo’s tongue in his own juices and then sucked their combined essence into his mouth, tasting the new flavor they’d created.         

Napoleon shivered, desire coursing through him at the way Illya worshipped his body.  He began to return the caresses, showing Illya how he felt as well.  He slid his hands underneath Illya’s shirt, ghosting across the pale skin, feeling the goose-pebbles rise up under his fingertips.  Illya cried out in pleasure and arched, his neck straining backwards, his chest heaving to take in more oxygen.  Napoleon took advantage and pulled Illya’s shirt open, rising up and pressing kisses against his chest, licking and nuzzling into the furry patch at the center.  

Something else was definitely rising, and Napoleon felt Illya’s erection press against his abdomen.  He was hard as well, had been from the first kiss, but he wanted this first time to be all about Illya.  He distracted his lover by laving his nipples into hard wet peaks, feeling the shock of it run through the Russian’s thin frame.  As he pulled one into his hot mouth, flicking his tongue against the tip, he delved lower with one questing hand, following the outline of the hard shaft with his busy fingers, cupping the tight pouch below.

“Bozhe moy, Napoleon,” Illya whispered as if afraid to speak out loud and break the spell.  He had been bewitched by Napoleon’s powers for years, and wanted this to last, even though he knew he couldn’t hold out against the loving hands on him.

Solo took pity on him, knowing Kuryakin’s celibate lifestyle worked against him, making him needier tonight.  Illya’s sighs and moans were sexy as hell, and Napoleon resolved to give his lover an earth-shaking orgasm.  He popped open the pants button and pulled down the zipper, delving inside the cloth and wrapping his hand around the stiff organ.  Illya bucked hard, but he kept his prize and worked the erection with his hand, up and down, up and down.  

“Polya!” Illya cried, arching shamelessly into the grip.  Napoleon kept up the assault, using his other hand to strip the trousers and briefs down, leaving Illya on his knees between his own trousered legs.  He squeezed the thick shaft, pulling the foreskin back with each downward motion.  Illya covered Napoleon’s hand with his own, showing him the rhythm and strength he needed from him.  

“That’s it, Loosha.  Show me the way.”  Solo looked up at his golden lover, watching the pleasure build on the beautiful face, blue eyes eclipsed by dark passion.  “Come for me, Illya.  Come for me, lyubov.”     

Illya had no choice but to obey, his body ready for release at the sound of Napoleon’s much loved baritone, roughened even deeper by desire.  “Polya…” he cried aloud, tightening his hand on his lover’s, his orgasm pulsing out of him, waves of pearly emission spurting across Napoleon’s abdomen, chest, and chin.  

Illya panted, pleasure spiraling out of his balls and his gut, the orgasm roaring across his nerve endings, leaving the wreckage of its wake painted across the flesh of his lover.  Napoleon kept up the stroking until he was sure Illya was spent, then made sure the Russian watched him as he ran his fingertips through the puddles of semen on his skin, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean.  His expression radiated lust and self-satisfaction and Illya whimpered, “Govno,” and fell against Napoleon’s chest, his body sliding wetly in his own fluids.  

Napoleon gathered him close, whispering in his ear, relishing the feel of the sleek naked body against his.  His own need was still evident, his erection digging into Illya’s stomach, prodding him with each breath.  Napoleon ignored it, wanting this closeness with his partner to last.  He rarely got to touch and caress as much as his personality needed, and now he indulged himself, hands busy along all the hard muscle and baby soft skin of his lover.  

Illya’s ragged breathing calmed and he moved languidly along the hard body beneath him.  “Polya, bozhe moy.  What you do to me…”

Solo laughed softly, tugging on the blond locks to bring Kuryakin face to face.  “What I do to you, beautiful man…”  He took the pouty mouth and suckled against the lips, pulling their softness into his mouth and tickling with his agile tongue, stealing Illya’s breath and then giving it back to him, making love to him anew.  

Illya returned the attention, rubbing sensuously against Napoleon’s groin, feeling the large organ twitching against his every move.  The Russian kicked off his shoes and pants, using the remnants of his shirt to clean perfunctorily between them.  He smiled at Napoleon’s moan, circling his hips against his, licking his lips at the thought of what came next.  He returned to Napoleon’s mouth, claiming him and marking his territory, sucking along his prominent chin, edging down his throat and stopping long enough to pull an earlobe into his mouth and nurse it, tickling the inside of his ear with the tip of his tongue.  

“Illya, please…”  Napoleon strained up against the smaller body, his erection a needy thing now that Illya had been satisfied.  He tried to bring Illya back to his mouth, but Illya would not be deterred from his inventory of the Solo landscape.  He snaked down to Napoleon’s collarbone, feeling the bony swelling on the right side where he’d broken it during the first year of their partnership.  He sucked one nipple while his busy hand tweaked the other and Solo arched, crying out his name.  Next stop was the knife scar across his ribs on the left side.  He licked the keloid skin gently, blowing cool air against the wetness, making Napoleon moan and shiver.  Illya placed his hands on the hipbones of his lover, holding him down and giving him control.  Slipping down to the abdomen, he mouthed the only non-violent mark in the collection; the appendectomy scar.  He remembered how sick Napoleon had been and how worried he’d been during the emergency surgery.  Odd how close to death his partner had come and Thrush had nothing to do with it.  

Illya looked up along the sweaty body to Napoleon’s gorgeous face, his brown eyes dark with desire and his face flushed with need.  They locked gazes for a moment, and Solo took a deep breath, rocked at the emotions stirring in him.  Illya kissed his belly once before continuing his journey south, and pulled the trousers off Solo with a few quick tugs.  

Napoleon groaned when his erection was finally freed, the cool air hitting his skin but doing nothing to dampen his ardor.  His shaft bobbed and tightened to his belly, twitching in anticipation.  Illya sat between Solo’s legs, staring at what he’d imagined for so long.  Napoleon was long and thick, circumcised and dark red at the tip, rosy at the base and large balls underneath.  

“Krasivvy, Polya. Bolshoi krasivvy.”  He reached out with one finger and drew it across the head, beading the moisture on his finger and taking it to his mouth, sucking the digit clean and moaning at the taste.  “Polya, moy Polya.”  

Napoleon groaned and closed his eyes, the thought of what Illya was about to do erotic as hell and pushing him nearer to flashpoint.  He felt the strong hand wrap snugly around the base of his shaft, a sharp tug painful and centering.  He gusted out a sigh and then opened his eyes, his need glittering and primal, eyes dilated and black with passion.  Illya met his sultry gaze and smiled wickedly a second before he lowered his head and sucked the flared head into his wet, wet mouth.  

“Ahhhh, Loosha,” he panted, the sight of his cock disappearing into Illya’s mouth nearly more than he could process.  He wanted to see it all, didn’t want to miss a second of this first time, and bucked up into the suction, helpless against Illya’s assault on his flesh.

Illya had his hands on his lover’s hips, controlling the depth of his thrusting, taking the first few inches in slowly, teasing and suckling the head, feeling the drops of precome dripping onto his tongue with every pass.  He knew Napoleon was close, but he wanted to give him everything, all that he had fantasized about, all the wicked and wonderful things he had wished for in the dark lonely nights of his solitary apartment.  Napoleon had been all he’d ever needed to bring himself to completion night after night, thoughts of his dark-eyed partner atop him, the hard body covering him, muscles in play under his encompassing hands as Solo pushed inside his willing body.

Illya took more of the girth, sliding wetly along its length, nearly releasing at the tip and then engulfing as much as he could, trying not to gag on the way down to the base.  He couldn’t take all of him, but compensated by cupping the testicles in one palm, rubbing gently and rolling each in turn, then sliding beyond and caressing the path to his opening, slipping fingers around and around, ghosting over the sensitive nerves there.  

Napoleon bucked hard, then, crying out in pleasure, warning Illya.  He writhed against the talented mouth and then back against the teasing digits, caught between two tortures.  “Loosha…please, I’m so close…”

Instead of pulling off, as Napoleon thought he would, Illya sucked harder, faster, swirling his tongue around the glans, edging his tongue-tip into the slit, making Napoleon shiver and moan.

His lover gave two more sharp thrusts into Illya’s mouth, then arched back, grunting as his orgasm took hold of his nervous system.  Illya felt Solo’s sac tighten in his palm, contracting as he felt the first pulse into his mouth.  He continued to massage the pouch, swallowing quickly to keep up with the outpouring of semen, keeping the head surrounded by the warmth of his swollen lips.  

His own cock was hard again, Napoleon’s pleasure affecting him as well, making him whimper as he felt the head expand in his mouth, the pulses strong and acidic, the taste imprinting on his cells.  Napoleon, Napoleon, this was the essence of his lover, and he wanted every drop.  He kept the organ in his mouth until the pulses stopped and it softened, drawing slowly out of his mouth. He let go reluctantly, giving the head one more kiss as it fell limp against the dark curly hair at its base.  

The Russian looked up into Napoleon’s face.  His skin was rosy and flushed, his breath harsh as he struggled to bring in enough oxygen to think, to move, to do anything but lie boneless and slack with satisfaction.  Illya inched up his lover's body and lay his head on Solo's white belly, breathing in the scent of him, of them both.  He gently rasped his stubbled cheek against Napoleon's belly button, licking inside and tasting himself mixed with Solo's sweat. The ticklish attention woke Napoleon, brought him back to the very pleasant present. He slipped his fingers into Illya's hair, massaging his scalp and feeling the silky strands sensuously.  Napoleon's skin vibrated with the contented rumblings coming from Illya's throat nudging against his ribcage.

"Illya."  He poked his partner with a toe.  

"Schto?"  Solo smiled. When Illya spoke Russian, he was very relaxed indeed.

"You're purring."

Kuryakin lifted his head to smile crookedly at his new lover.  "Well, as you have already noted, Lenny and I have a lot in common."

"Lenny?  Your cat?"

"Tom-cat, Napoleon. Tom-cat.  And as such, he has three favorite activities; fighting, hunting and rutting."  Illya slid up Solo's torso, frictioning his hard cock against the smooth skin along the way. "You and I have fought together, hunted together and now..."

Napoleon grinned at the Russian Blue climbing him like a cat tower and said, "So, now, I going to sweat you a little bit, eh, pooseycat?"    

Illya scowled. "Your accent is still atrocious." The devilment in his eyes disturbed Napoleon as much as it excited him. "And what makes you think I'll be on the bottom, Polya?"

The American felt his stomach flutter and his cock harden at the prospect of Illya taking him.  When the day started, he would never have imagined it. Now, it was all he desired.  

Illya felt the response along Napoleon's nervous system and swallowed. Solo's eyes were black in the twilight, and he felt a moment's hesitation.  Napoleon's masculinity had always been tied to his heterosexualness, along with his authority.  Illya would never ask him to do anything to damage it.  "Napoleon...we don't have to..."

Solo ended the discussion by pulling Kuryakin up and aligning their erections. He took both of them with one hand and slid the other back into Illya's mane.  Pressing close, Napoleon took Illya's mouth, shutting him up and stealing his breath.  

"Rumor has it there's a bed around here somewhere?"  Napoleon slipped an ear lobe into his mouth and suckled like a kitten.  

He was suddenly hauled up to his feet as Illya, beyond words now, pointed to his bedroom door.  "Then let's go, Tiger.  Show me your stray cat strut."  Illya took Napoleon by the hand and through the small living room to his short hallway.

As they passed, a crouched figure watched with slitted eyes through the window as the men disappeared into Illya's bedroom.  After a moment, Lenny mewled quietly, and settled down on the fire escape to keep watch.   

 

*/*/*/

 


End file.
